WHAM! SMACK! WHACK! Smash! Thud! Shudder-creak-crash! I am nearly seasick in this coffin-size wooden box as it hammers relentlessly into ridges of ice atop frozen Barrow Strait. The coffin is sealed upon a komatik (Eskimo sled), the komatik is pulled by a snorting Skidoo, and I am buried under a caribou hide that would smell worse than bad drains were it not stiff with icicles.

I have fond childhood memories of drives to rural Sonoma County, of looking back at distant San Francisco over a vast stretch of farmland at grazing cattle, a trail of dust billowing as an old farm vehicle crossed the field. Little did I know, but that was a bad thing.